Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) by Dana Arama (diy ebook reader TXT) 📕

“We are first going to do a surveillance check. They could have put a GPS device in one of the boxes and someone is onto us. When we are sure, we will continue to the drop off point.”

A fleeting smile crossed Yassin’s face as he answered, “Okay. We will stay put and see if you have a tail.” While he was talking, I was wondering how Dubroshin was going to save me and the kid. Would he kill Yassin? Dubroshin was a KGB assassin. He wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

We continued sitting. Yassin’s smile widened, “I love these mind games.” From a side panel in the door, he pulled out a bag containing red pills. He popped one of them into his mouth, without offering me any. He pulled out a gun from the same place and laid it on his knees. Still smiling he said, “You are aware that if they have a tail, I shoot you immediately?”

***

The next few minutes seemed like eternity. I was so tense I almost pissed myself. If Alex notified Dubroshin and if Dubroshin did what he knew how to do, I was as good as dead. I was so tense yet I couldn’t see anything out of the window, which had been closed again. When the person with the familiar accent tapped on the window, I jumped in alarm. The kid jumped too. Yassin giggled and opened the window slightly.

“The crates are clean. We’re continuing to our destination,” announced the familiar voice.

I almost breathed out in relief, but then a black car started driving towards us. I didn’t recognize it, but Dubroshin had his own ways of getting around. I heard the gun being cocked and I felt as if the bullet was already piercing my body. The need for drugs had been exchanged for the need to vomit. Despite all the feelings rushing around inside of me, I tried to maintain a poker face.

“If the car turns after them, at the traffic light, I’m shooting you in the knee. Then we will find out where it’s going.”

“Calm down,” I answered him. “A deal is a deal and it doesn’t include shooting me in the knees. If you don’t mind, I still need to find out if you have transferred the money to the right place.”

Yassin laughed out loud, so loud that the vehicle rocked. “That’s what I like about you. You always remain calm and collected.” With a generous gesture, he let me place the call. I dialed and a feminine voice answered in Spanish. I said, “El Desconocido, por favor.” And after a moment I added, “It’s Murat speaking.” The line went dead and after a while it came alive again.

“My friend.” I heard the rolling, unmistakable accent. “You are wanted by very serious factors. I wasn’t sure I would hear from you again.”

“That won’t happen so fast,” I answered, hoping I was correct. “I need you to check if the transaction we were talking about took place.”

“I don’t need to check. I know it did. Even those serious factors requested knowledge about the transaction.” Then he added, “Be careful,” and hung up.

I hung up too. Who else was looking for me? Whoever it was couldn’t be worse than the one sitting before me now.

Yassin opened the window and ordered, “Throw out your cell phone.”

I held onto the phone another moment, and then, with a movement of acceptance of the fact that I was isolated, I threw the phone away into the shrubbery on the side of the road.

***

When I ran away from England, because of the contract the Red Mafia had put on my head, once I arrived in the United States the one thing I wanted most was to see Universal Studios in Hollywood. I’d grown up on the American thriller movies together with my friends, and on the romantic movies I saw by myself, far away from my father’s watchful, controlling eye. In my eyes, these movies were a magical secret of America. When I visited Hollywood, someone told me that more movies were filmed in New York than LA. Whoever said it meant TV series and was correct. When we drove into a street partially blocked with cameras, lighting and extras, I wasn’t surprised.

I summed up all my bad luck: I’d finalized a deal of weapons I stole from Germany, and I wasn’t going to see any money from that. I’d made a deal with an old school friend, who now wanted me to blow myself up as a shahid as part of some delusional suicide mission. I gave the boy, the little genius a chance to send a warning, and it hadn’t succeeded. And finally, I was in New York on a day they were filming, and I couldn’t stay to watch. The last detail really saddened me. I’d been hoping to escape amidst the chaos.

Yassin’s gun was once again in his hand and he said, “Don’t even think about doing something rash.”

“You must learn to relax,” I said and hoped that the look on my face was something approaching a smile. The devil was too tuned into what I was thinking.

A camera on a large boom followed us as the gate opened. We drove into the underground parking lot and more cameras awaited. As if on cue, Yassin’s soldiers got out of the vehicles, collected the crates and put them in the elevator. The camera continued filming. I felt as if I was on a weird acid trip. Was he going to film the attack?

The hotel had closed the lobby for Yassin. It was almost absurd, a crowd of clearly militant people carrying crates, and one wounded kid being helped by two of the fighters, entering into a special elevator which led to the top floor. And then gone, like a gust of wind, disappeared.

We walked into what seemed like a regular hotel suite but in fact looked more like a conference hall. The boy was pushed roughly into a small enclosure which